


Echoes of Ghosts

by Eustacia Vye (eustaciavye)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. References, F/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, not compliant with current comic series, vague comic references from past series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:24:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eustaciavye/pseuds/Eustacia%20Vye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe they were reacting to fragments of memory. Maybe they really weren't anything more than ghosts. Or maybe they really mattered to each other once upon a time, and all they had left was this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes of Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> You can also see [the amazing artwork here on Tumblr.](http://si-ri-miri.tumblr.com/post/113809516238/for-the-buckynat-mini-bang-d-paired-up-to-make)

For someone that knew what he was doing, he had left a trail a mile wide, highlighted with _Come find me!_ Then again, judging by the wide swath of dead Hydra agents in his wake, that was possibly the point. His trail went zig zagging across the globe, sometimes leaving burned out craters in his wake. They probably had once been Hydra bases, and Natasha wasn't about to mourn for the twisted remains left in the wreckage. She probably should; not all of Hydra's agents were actively choosing evil tasks, and a good number were coerced, brainwashed or blackmailed into accepting their lead. But there was also the far larger number that _chose_ to align themselves with Hydra and their goals, that _chose_ to subjugate others in their quest for power and supremacy. Natasha couldn't mourn those lost souls.

She kept her distance as she followed him, flashes of a silver arm hidden beneath black leather or battered denim at least telling her that the mechanized arm was still functional. She couldn't tell if his programming was still intact or breaking down, if he was killing Hydra agents out of revenge or some kind of twisted interpretation that laid hidden beneath the layers of orders. She knew Steve and Sam were out looking for him, starting with the thick file she had obtained for them, but they started at the beginning and were working their way forward. It possibly shouldn't have pleased her to know that the old Ukrainian labs were nothing more than ash now.

It felt almost like walking through fragments of her own past. Much of them were jumbled, rearranged into different patterns, pieces of lives she lived or never had, shadows of who she had pretended to be. Some fragments stayed with her, resonating more than she thought they would. It didn't make sense, and something she had always chalked up to errors in her own memory modifications or programming that the Red Room had put into place. SHIELD had done their best to get everything out without resorting to their techniques, but it more than likely still left something behind. That was what she told herself, anyway.

Passing through Austria, Natasha thought perhaps that she was being followed. If so, it was a good tail, being very subtle and hanging back just far enough for her to doubt her own senses. She reacted as if her instinct was correct; whatever else had happened in the past, however fractured her early memories could be, her instincts had always been correct. So she disappeared from Austria without another whisper, and surfaced in Italy. It had been a random choice, and for a while that sense of being hunted was gone.

Natasha wore a wig with mahogany hair and hid her eyes behind large sunglasses. Her clothing was impeccable as she boarded a train headed for Milan, a location picked on a whim. Using a cover she developed over the past few weeks and one of the hidden bank accounts even SHIELD hadn't known about, she booked a room at the Park Hyatt; this cover identity was very involved in reporting the fashion world, and that location was very close to the Milanese boutiques and designers she would ostensibly report about. It was in the very center of all the tourist attractions, in an older building with all the historical touches that this identity would love.

And there was something about it that drew Natasha, a siren's call she didn't understand but answered nonetheless.

The hotel security was as top notch as its five star reputation required, though she could run rings around it if she really wanted to. The recent renovations had updated the hotel, but it was the ghost of a memory that she was responding to. Natasha couldn't remember any jobs she had done in Milan, even for the Red Room, though that didn't necessarily mean anything. She remembered one of the SHIELD agents watching over the therapist saying that she had Swiss cheese memory, and the therapist frowning at him. Was it because the comparison was too apt or too irreverent? It didn't matter at the time, and that agent hadn't worked with her after that. Of course now that she knew Hydra had worked its way into SHIELD almost from the beginning, she had to wonder who that particular agent had been loyal to, and if her shattered memory had been an issue.

"Welcome back, Ms. Lombardi," the front desk attendant greeted her as she checked in. Her cover had frequent stays according to their records, no preferred room or special requests. "Do you want to book any additional services during your stay here?"

Natasha gave the clerk a polite smile. "Perhaps the spa, if it's available?" A deep tissue massage would be utterly heavenly right about now.

He practically beamed at the chance to help her with something. "Absolutely." A few deft keystrokes and he had the spa schedule. "You'll be here through the rest of this week. Is Friday afternoon a good time for you?"

"Yes, thank you."

Appointment booked, Natasha shouldered her bag and took her carry on to the elevators. She knew she wasn't being watched, not by the Winter Soldier, not by any other assassin, but there was a sense of something being off. Perhaps the ghost of a memory that hadn't been completely erased, an echo finally being felt. There were plenty of luxury hotels in Milan, after all. She had even been here before, and stayed in a cute bed and breakfast as part of a different cover identity; those were always much better jobs than the ones where she had to hole up in dives and hope she didn't catch some vile disease. High thread count sheets, spa service, free wifi and room service were all delightful amenities that made life on the run much more tolerable.

It wasn't until her soak in the tub later that the echo of a lost memory was heightened. It wasn't this room, because the arrangement of the room was slightly different. But she could feel the ghostly press of fingers against her skin, cold bathroom tile and hot steam. She was with someone, kisses against her breasts, her legs parting to let someone in. A man, she knew that much, but couldn't figure out _who_ she had been sleeping with. It wasn't a mark, the memory didn't have that kind of disdainful feel to it. She was with someone she actually cared about, someone she had been willing to say that she loved. Which was silly, because she didn't love. She couldn't love. Romance meant nothing, could never mean anything in the face of her profession.

And yet...

Natasha was standing at the doorway into her hotel room, almost surprised by how neat and clean it was. Why wasn't it a complete disaster?

The door to her room opened, and she swung around to face it, wishing she had a gun or a knife with her. It wouldn't be difficult for her to take someone out, even while naked, but that didn't mean she _wanted_ to do that.

The Winter Soldier was there, and shutting the door behind him, locking it. He strode forward, his facial expression still a mask but his eyes alight with inner fire. "You followed me across half of Europe and now you're here." His lips parted, and he licked them, almost as if nervous. "Do you remember this place?"

A chill rolled down her spine that had nothing to do with the fact that she was dressed in only a white fluffy bathrobe. "What are you talking about?"

He gave a slow blink in response to her words. She hadn't been harsh, but he reacted as if she had been full of anger or loathing. "Of course," he murmured, his entire body loosening a fraction. "You don't recall it. They must have erased you, too."

 _Do you know what it's like to be unmade?_ Clint had asked. He had known the answer, but had needed to hear it, too.

 _You know that I do,_ she had replied. Because she did. She had been unmade and made, remade and turned inside out more times than she could even recall. The Red Room had been very thorough, so she wasn't sure what memory of that time was real or not.

"You're the Winter Soldier. Are you here to kill me?"

His walk forward was slow and lazy, a slight swagger in his step. A memory seemed to slide into place in the back of her mind. This hotel. That walk. Those eyes. Her nudity, the press of fingers against her skin and lips across hers and _desire_ flooding her veins, illicit and wonderful and _hush, quiet, don't let them year you..._

"I almost remember you, Natalia. I didn't at first. But you didn't close in when you could have. You weren't hunting me. And Steve Rogers. He and his friends follow, but they aren't hunting me. None of you hunt, not as the handlers have."

"What do you remember?" she asked. If he wouldn't answer the question about killing her, perhaps she could figure it out another way.

"Fragments. Flashes. Bits and pieces, and they don't fit together right." He reached out with his left hand, the cool metal brushing against her cheek. "This. I remember this."

Her body didn't react in fear but in _lust,_ sharp and swift and familiar. She remembered clutching a sheet to her naked chest, lips quirking into a smile, the touch of metal on skin, laughing and telling someone — him, it was the Winter Soldier, who else would have a metal hand? — and her breath fluttered in her chest.

"How can you remember this?" she asked, voice cool. It was only her professional training that allowed her to even respond evenly, to not flail and shout at him and demand to know if he was trying to torture her before killing her, even if that wasn't his way.

But all of this emotion was intolerable. Emotions were tangled strings that would choke her. They got in the way of the mission. They would ruin everything she was working so hard to do.

As much as she wanted to hold onto that part of her childhood training, she couldn't deny the _want_ and _need_ clawing at her gut, intense and threatening to overwhelm her. She didn't know why it was so important, but it was there, something pulling at her spine, an instinct she had to pay attention to. The Red Room had been full of liars and manipulators, after all. Her own mind was suspect.

What if he was telling the truth?

"I don't," he said, a wisp of bitterness in his voice, the dejected laughter swallowed down before even a huff of it could escape. "I don't remember. I want to remember, but it falls out of reach..." His expression closed off for a moment, eyes distant. He was seeing something else, perhaps his fall off the train in the Alps, arm outstretched for Steve, both screaming in agony as he plummeted into the snow.

Gently, slowly, telegraphing her intent, Natasha let her fingers brush against the metal of his hand, then to his wrist and arm. Her other hand went up to touch his face. "Is this what you remember?" she asked, eyes tracking his face intently.

"I remember..." His voice trailed off and he gave her a plaintive look. "Cold. There was so much cold, and blood, and death... I know that was real. I'm not sure this is. Is that why you're following me? Seeing how much I remember?"

His hands rested on her shoulders, and when he dragged them away, it shifted the robe. Natasha's scar was exposed, and his eyes fell on it immediately. "I did that. I don't remember when or how, but... No. Wait. The bridge. I saw your hair, and the shot on the bridge. I followed you. It hurt to see you, to have you shooting at me. I don't—" He swallowed thickly, eyes uncertain as he looked from the scar on her shoulder to her face. "It wasn't the first time I shot you."

"No."

"Or hurt you. I remember a kick and a punch. You were younger then, hair longer. Bangs." He stopped, contemplating her. "It's the eyes. You look pretty much the same, but features were softer then. Your eyes. You've seen more by now."

"You kicked and punched me?" she asked, trying to see if her own memories would slot into place with his. But she didn't remember that, only the slide of his skin against hers, his mouth on hers, his body, slick and warm and welcome, the _hurry can't let anyone know or they'll kill us or worse_ burning fierce along with the fragments of memory.

His expression crumpled and he seemed to fold in on himself. "I don't know. I don't remember. I can't remember. And I need to. What they made of me... What they made me do..." His gaze on hers was pained, the agony and torture of the decades catching up with him. "I saw the exhibit in that museum. The picture almost looked like me. That man. Steve Rogers thinks that's me, doesn't he? That's why he circles. He thinks that man is somewhere."

Natasha knew she was walking on razor wire with him. But this was Bucky as much as he was the Winter Soldier, a victim of Hydra and their associates for over seventy years.

She let the robe fall from her shoulders and ignored the chill. She had trained in worse, after all, and this was nothing. Taking his flesh hand, she drew his attention to the scar at her shoulder, then dragged his hand down to her abdomen. "I got in your way," she said slowly. "Deliberately. I knew what I was doing when I stepped in front of you to get your attention, when I drew your fire. And you shot me. But both times, I lived. You never came in to finish the job and kill me."

His hand tightened around her hip, eyes zeroing on the scar on her abdomen. "I put that there. It wasn't there before, not what I remember."

Mouth gone dry, Natasha watched him carefully. "What do you remember about it?"

His thumb brushed over the rise of her hipbone reverently, fingers sliding down. While his eyes were still in the direction of her scar, she could tell he wasn't really seeing it anymore. "We practiced your English. Training in hand to hand, I think. You were going to go on a mission, and we had to be quiet. I remember—" He looked up, and the expression on his face was at once the same and different, the shift of his jaw and eyes. It wasn't murderous or confused any longer.

 _"Natalia,"_ he groaned as he leaned into her, hand tight on her hip. His mouth found hers in the same instant his body pressed up to hers, and memory flared to life like the wick of a candle when touched by a match.

He had no name, never had a name. They would never give him one. That would humanize him, and he was only the Asset. Or the American. Or the Winter Soldier.

Whatever they called him, he was hers. Neither of them had remembered it clearly until now.

There was his mouth on hers and one hand tangled in her hair while the other kept her hip in place, her body against his. Leaning forward into her, his mouth was hot and open, tongue darting across the seam between her lips. _Knock, knock, let me in..._

Natasha opened her mouth beneath his and hooked her right leg around his hips. The buckles were cold against her bare skin, the denim and distressed kevlar scratchy against her inner thigh. But that was familiar too, and she didn't even think about it as she tangled her hands in his hair to keep him pinned in the kiss. Rough and ready, fast, fast, faster, _not that much time, hurry, hurry, we have to do this now!_

Memory fragments blurred in with the present, a cohesive whole at last.

He walked forward and she stumbled backward into the wall. When he shifted his grip on her hip, she raised her other leg and wrapped it around her waist, hoisting herself up a little and using him as a balance aid. Desire pooled deep between her legs, a growing warm ache that was only too familiar. Natasha kissed him as if her life depended on it, as if this was the only thing that ever mattered to her. He was her mission, _this_ was her mission, this kiss and their pleasure and having him inside her would determine the future.

 _"Душа моя,"_ he growled against her mouth. _My soul._

 _"Жизнь моя,"_ she replied, mouths still attached. _My life._

He didn't move fast enough, and the tongue sliding into her mouth wasn't deep enough. She wanted to feel devoured, wanted to be utterly and completely consumed. Reaching between their bodies, she hurriedly attacked the buckles and buttons and snaps, sending pieces of clothing flying if she had to, anything to get skin on skin, her insides feeling like warm honey.

"I remember this," he murmured as he mouthed her jaw. "God, I remember this, I remember you, why do I remember this?"

"I remember this, too," she said, a breathy moan low in her throat. "It has to be something real, something they tried to take from us."

Yes, that felt right. That carried the weight of truth to it.

"I'll know you when I'm inside you, won't I?" he purred next to her ear. He would be smiling if she checked, a filthy thing just for her to see. She knew that tone, recognition resonating deep in her bones. _She knew him._

"I want you there," she groaned, scoring her nails down his back, shooting him a grin. "I want your cock inside me, all the way in, right up against all the good spots." His eyes were blown wide, dark with desire and Natasha laughed. It was familiar and strange and wonderful and _she had to have more of this._ "We don't have to be quiet anymore. I want you fucking me, hard and deep, making me scream loud enough to shake the walls."

He sucked the skin of her throat, teeth grazing her slightly. "No need to be quiet anymore, is there?"

"Only decency laws and noise ordinances."

"So no," he replied, grinning against the skin of her neck. "Good."

He thrust his hips up against her, the grating slide of cloth against her core lighting her up with desperate need. "Get those fucking clothes off," she commanded, attacking the buckles. He started helping her kick off his clothes and weapons, but then they were tangled together and fell sideways. Banging into the nightstand was familiar, and Natasha couldn't help but laugh. Oh dear god, this had to be comical. Two skilled assassins, graceful under fire and endlessly coordinated and talented, yet couldn't figure out how to disrobe and fuck at the same time.

Picking up her laughter, the Winter Soldier seemed almost happy, almost like the fallen Bucky Barnes again. They fell onto the bed and she kicked off his boots and pants. "Jesus," he said, even sounding like Bucky. "I'm better than this, I know I am."

"Show me how good you are," she purred, scratching at his bared chest.

Then he was slamming into her, the stretch and pull of it feeling like home. Comfortable and familiar and _right_ somehow, like this was how it was all meant to be. Hotel rooms scattered across nations under dozens of different names, heat and desperation, but love beneath it all, that quiet need to make sure they were both okay, that there was still a fragment of their selves left. Of course that had to be eradicated. Of course they would be punished.

And here they were, back to themselves, battered but still whole. The Red Room and Hydra hadn't won after all.

Natasha lifted her hips and drove her heels into his ass, her arms wrapped around his shoulders to hold him tight against her when he nearly lifted off. He looked at her, metal hand poised near her head to brace himself and the flesh hand gripping her tight. There would be bruises later, but she didn't care. He'd marked her already,in the dark days of their hollow memories, then again even when they couldn't remember each other. "Harder," she said, grinning up at him. "You can do better than that, can't you?"

Hard and fast, hips working like a piston, relentless and unflagging strength. He filled her completely, his length perfect and comfortable inside her. It was a surprise when her orgasm hit, making her yelp and moan. He pulled out, grinning fiercely at her, eyes fever bright and taking in the slight flush to her pale skin. Without words, he took her hips and shifted them, indicating she should turn over. On hands and knees, Natasha knelt on the bed, dropping her forehead to the rumpled sheets and lifting her ass to put it on display for him. There was an appreciative growl, his hands lightly caressing her skin, and then he was slamming into her again. He was still fully hard, hadn't come yet, little hissing noises and growls and grunts the signs of his pleasure. Natasha thought she could remember this, that he reined himself so tightly all the time that it took forever to wind him up enough to let go, that she usually came at least twice before he came once. The version of the serum he had meant he healed quickly and had an ultrarapid metabolism, and also seemed to mean that his refractory period was pretty damn short.

Oh, yes, she had been a lucky girl in some respects.

Natasha grasped the sheets, pulling on them to keep herself steady as he slammed into her, her entire body shifting on the bed. She groaned in pleasure, deep and throaty, and tried to push backward into him. _"Жизнь моя,"_ she gasped, eyes falling closed at the sensation of him inside of her. He reached around her to stroke her clit, a little added sensation, and her "Yes" hissed out of her.

She grasped one of her breasts, kneading it a little and lightly pinching the nipple. "Just like that," she gasped. "Right there."

"I'll make it so you don't walk," he growled. "So your entire stay here is with me, in this room." Each phrase was punctuated with a thrust deep inside of her, with his fingers rubbing her clit.

"Yes," Natasha agreed, pinching her nipple a little harder. "Make up for lost time."

He groaned when she tightened around his cock, but it wasn't the mind-melting sound that he made when about to come. Little things were coming back to her, details she had been forced to forget singing in her veins.

When she came again, she collapsed down into the bed, her face mashed into the sheet. Still he kept going, more sounds with his thrusts. Ah, he was finally getting closer, and Natasha turned a little so she could look at him out of the corner of her eye. All determination and smooth muscle, a glazed and lusty look in his eyes. "Come for me," she said, her voice a throaty purr. "James," she added, testing out his given name. Bucky was a name for Steve to use. This would have to be something private, just for the two of them, just for this.

Startled surprise, then a pleased and wondrous smile spread across his face. The name seemed to sink in and settle across his skin like a mark of ownership. "Natalia," he murmured, and he was spilling inside of her, body finally uncoiling, tension releasing all at once.

They sprawled across the bed afterward, dimly aware of the chaos around them. "We've done more damage," James declared as he surveyed their work.

"This was just once. I have a few days, you said."

James laughed and pulled her in close, tucking her against his body the way it remembered and he wanted to. "Thank God this is real. That you're real." He pressed his cheek against her shoulder, liking the way her back tucked perfectly against his chest, that he could palm a perfect breast and stroke it until her breath caught.

"Did you think I wasn't?"

"Afraid I was dreaming in the tank. That this didn't actually happen between us, and you were Hydra trying to lull me in before they wipe me clean again."

Natasha paused, considering the trust he had given in admitting that. "I am real," she said slowly, deliberately, reaching behind her to touch his skin. "This is real. This happened before, even if they took it from us. And it'll happen again." She could feel his smile against her shoulder. "If we remember this much already, imagine how much we'd remember if we spent more time together, working together..."

A shadow crossed his features. "I'm not a good man."

"I know. I'm not a good woman, either." She turned around to face him, and caught his metal hand in both of her flesh ones. "But we can choose to do right. To be more than the programming they gave us. To bring our lives into balance."

"There is no balance in what we do."

"I tried to make a balance," Natasha murmured. She brought his metal hand to her lips and kissed it reverently. "You probably could, if you wanted to."

James gave a bark of bitter laughter. "What? Like Captain America?"

"I know him," Natasha murmured.

"I'm not who he wants me to be," he replied. His voice was flat, emotionless, and Natasha shifted so that she could straddle his body on the bed. "Natalia..."

"He wants you to be yourself, whoever that is. He wants you free of Hydra influence. Would he love to have you as a friend again? Sure, he would. But I don't think he's so idealistic that he would ignore who you are now to try to recapture a friend from over seventy years ago. Even he isn't the same man he was then."

"And you?" James asked, reaching up and cupping a breast.

"I don't remember you from before, really. Flashes of things, glimpses that are familiar. I don't think you really remember me, either." She waited for his confirmatory head shake. "So for me, it's a matter of learning who you are now. Of relearning what our bodies like." She ran her nails lightly along the muscles of his chest, faintly smiling when he shivered in pleasure. "I don't think it's going to be easy on any of us."

Flicking her nipple gently, James smiled faintly. "Why do I get the feeling you're going to like that?"

"I like challenges."

"That explains taking me on in the field."

Natasha laughed, and stretched out on top of him again. "Could be. But you were considered a ghost. Nobody believed me when I told them who shot me."

James ran his fingers along her bare spine. "And what do you consider me now?"

Her smile was fond and rakish at the same time. "Definitely not a ghost," she replied, and let her mouth crash down over his again.

***

By the end of her stay in Milan, Natasha really did need the massage and spa time that she had requested. She had barely left the hotel room, and only then to shop for a few clothes for James. He had nothing with him but what he could steal from Hydra camps, and that was woefully inadequate for life on the run. He had thought it amusing that she would care about that, that he should want to have more than a single change of clothes and as many weapons as he could hide on his person. It hadn't mattered before. Why would it matter now?

Except that it did matter. _He mattered._ Natasha couldn't explain why he did, not in a logical manner. James didn't even bother to ask the question; he was too busy delving into her secret places with his fingers and tongue, in fucking her until she was stifling her screams, making her come until she was so hypersensitive that it was torture to continue. Each night left her sore everywhere and only capable of rasps. But this was _good,_ wonderful in a way that she couldn't describe in words. Her entire being seemed to fly higher, as if a missing piece of herself had finally been slotted back into place.

Maybe they were reacting to fragments of memory. Maybe they really weren't anything more than ghosts. Or maybe they really mattered to each other once upon a time, and all they had left was this.

Natasha laid down on her stomach, her hair wrapped up in a towel after the sauna. James had been somewhat reluctant to let her leave, but understood about keeping appointments to maintain appearances. She closed her eyes and rested her head on her crossed arms, waiting for the masseuse to enter. She was tired, a weariness creeping into her bones that she hadn't allowed herself to feel until now. For years, she had been constantly moving from one mission to the next, never allowing herself a break, never allowing herself to question that what she was doing was right, was a way to balance her ledger.

And now everything had literally gone up in smoke.

She had told Steve to be careful pulling on the thread leading to James; she knew there was no point in warning him away because he was that stubborn, and James needed to be found. He couldn't stay alone long term, especially with his memories coming back.

Pushing aside the worries for James and Steve and even herself, Natasha focused on the soft ambient music around her. She sighed contentedly as the masseuse began her work, and focused on that sensation. When she left, Natasha stayed sprawled on the table for a while. There were no appointments for the rest of the day, and places like this often allowed clients to stay and relax long after the actual massage was done. She cracked an eye open when the door opened again, and then she grinned openly at the man awkwardly standing there.

"Did you think I would run off and leave you alone?"

"It occurred to me."

"I'm relaxed, is all." She stretched her arms out in front of her, then rolled over onto her back. All she wore was a thin towel and fragrant oils, and the towel fluttered to the floor as she turned. The sight of her naked body made him draw in a breath, eyes dilated in lust. "Care to see?"

His hands were on her almost instantly, as if memorizing the feel of her under his fingertips. "I did not want to be alone again," he said, his voice a growl as he slid two fingers inside her. Natasha was already slick and ready, making him groan. "The room is empty. It didn't feel right to stay there without you."

"Do you want to track me?"

Something flared in his eyes at the sign of trust. "I would let you track me as well."

Natasha laughed and pulled him down for a kiss. There was little to muss in this room, which was just as well. They didn't always have to trash hotel rooms. It was more important to feel his cock slide into her, to have him grunt as he spilled inside of her, to score her nails down his back as she came herself.

Cradling him against her body, Natasha nipped his ear. "Where will we find these trackers?"

"I'll get them. If you trust me."

"I'll put them in. If you trust me."

They grinned at each other, knowing this would sound strange or creepy to anyone else.

Nipping his ear again, Natasha purred "I can help you take out Hydra, you know."

"But I plan to kill them all. I've always done the kill shots so Steve wouldn't have to."

Some of the old Bucky Barnes had come through then, and he frowned at Natasha. "Don't tell him about me. We get the trackers, we put them in, I become a ghost again. Promise me."

"I promise," she said quietly. "But he would help you, you know. He brought down SHIELD to try destroying Hydra hiding places. He would help you. He's not as innocent as you think."

"I can't—" Shaking his head, James frowned and seemed to retreat into himself. "I can't let him be this. I can't let him become what I am."

"He's killed, too. He would do no less to protect you, if he had to."

James recoiled from that and paced the room in an agitated manner. "No. He _shouldn't."_

"Steve is very protective of his friends."

"I don't remember," he growled.

"I don't think that matters to him, to be honest," Natasha replied, moving to sit up. She braced her hands on the massage table, which had her lean her torso toward him slightly. "I think he's been alone so long, he'll take all the friends he can find. That he will take whatever friendship you're able to give and rebuild from there if you let him."

He gave her a sharp look. "You're friends with him."

"Yes. I trust him. I trust Sam." She lifted a hand when he opened his mouth to speak. "I won't tell them about the tracker. I just promised you that. But I do think they can help. They're not stupid, and they're following the path you're making."

That seemed to throw him for a loop. "But why?"

"Because in his own way, he's trying to figure out what happened in the past. He wants to figure out a way to help you, to be there for you the way that you were for him." She gave him a soft, sad smile. "It's what friends do for each other, James. They help however they can."

"We're a little more than friends, I should think," he replied, starting to pace again.

"James," Natasha said softly, gesturing for him to come closer. He did so reluctantly, visibly still trying to reconcile what she was telling him with what he remembered. "I'm not lying to you. If there is any doubt at all, it's because Hydra put it there. Because Steve was always their enemy. Because I tried to fight them whenever I could. Steve was devastated by your loss. And they could only separate us by erasing each other from our minds. That should tell you something about how Hydra operates. They try to undermine everything about you, twist you to their purpose, make you doubt what's real."

"Then how do you know?"

"Sometimes," she said with a sad smile, "I'm almost not sure. But I know Steve, and I trust him implicitly. I don't know you as well, not anymore, they saw to that, but I _feel_ it. I have the echo of what we used to have. They couldn't erase that. I don't feel that way about just anyone, James. We know we're real. _This is real._ We're not actually ghosts, this isn't the echo of a memory they're trying to erase." She grasped his hands and brought them gently to her lips, giving them a tender kiss. "If we can start over, you can start over in other areas. I know you can, if you're determined enough."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because I have. Because I'm going to do it again. Because I'll start over as many times as I need to until I get it right."

"Get what right?"

"Wiping my ledger clean. Being someone worth _being,_ not a construct, not a cover."

"You think I can do this?" he asked, visibly yearning for that to be true.

"I think you can. It won't be easy, nothing worthwhile ever is, but I think you can."

He left soon after to get the tracking devices. They would be a set, likely on the same frequency with the same pingback codes. And if two earnest young men knew about her tracker, they would feel comforted by her safety. And possibly another's.

Natasha smiled in the empty massage room and then got her robe. One more day in Milan, and she certainly didn't intend to waste it. She had no idea what the future was going to bring, but for the first time she didn't dread the thought of it.

The End


End file.
